


Morning Glories

by brunch, Fallowfield



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Catholic school AU, High School AU, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:52:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunch/pseuds/brunch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallowfield/pseuds/Fallowfield





	1. Slippers

  


 

Akira’s face had felt numb for quite some time. He’d always been known for his welcoming smile, but now it felt alien and lopsided, like he’d have to hold it up with the pads of his fingers. But all these goodbyes, these thank yous, these introductions, left him with such a tremendous fatigue, like his face could slide off his skull. A strange guilt accompanied it, and he found himself staring into the mirror under yellow light after everyone had gone. He felt like he was lying. Their kindness deserved an earnest reply. But this didn’t seem to be his face anymore. Nothing at all could be the same as before.

 

He stared at his fingernails. The rain seemed like it was a being of its own, heaving in and out as if it breathed. He had to take a moment to catch his breath as the wall of humidity slammed into him. Almost instantly, he could feel the sweat dripping from his elbows and trickling down the back of his knees. He looked down. Just one large black suitcase. That’s all the familiarity he was granted. And now, he could feel the idling car behind him change gears and begin to pull away, and though it was new to him just yesterday, he felt one last strand of comfort begin to stretch and dissolve like a spider’s web. He couldn’t help but feel the tears well up in his eyes.

 

He looked up at the house. It gazed back at him. Unlike the houses in the city, it seemed to have a soul of its own, set back in its wooden frame. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to emulate its peace and patience. It can sit here for decades, watching what happens in the world. Why can’t he? Why wasn’t there a breeze to wash it away? Instead, he felt like he was gasping for breath in this heavy air. Even though the rain was barraging him, he still felt so much resistance as he tried to move his legs at all. He wondered what he looked like, just standing here.

 

The front door slid open, and his old friend rushed out the door. Apparently she had been waiting at the window, watching the car make its way down the long driveway. She dashed down the steps and landed right in front of him with a small puff. Her energy was friendly but somewhat fatigued him. Miki somehow hadn’t changed at all. Of course, she had grown so much, but she still looked at you so warmly, like she was holding your hand. You never questioned her earnestness. She didn’t avoid your gaze out of pity. This time, though, you could tell her heart was bleeding. Extra light seemed to reflect from her eyes, and her smile was subdued. She dipped her head. “Welcome, Akira.”

 

He wondered what her impression of him was, after so many years. He felt strange and tall and uncoordinated. In the car he’d leaned his forehead on the window, letting the rolling hills blend together beside him. He only had vague memories of visiting the countryside years ago, before she’d even moved away, looking through a window at another reality. His smile wasn’t entirely ungenuine. The fact she was so much the same was comforting. But both comforting and distressing things made tears come to his eyes.

 

Miki smiled more widely, wrinkling her nose, those familiar creases still appearing around her eyes. She gently pat his shoulder. The laugh she was trying to hide still limped out, which made her eyebrows shoot up, and she covered her mouth. Akira knew it was her realization that it was still him, but could feel her embarrassment for laughing at such an inappropriate time. “I’m so sorry, Akira.” Apparently the rain couldn’t hide his tears. He tried to laugh too. He was truly amused by her but the physical act of laughing still felt alien to him. She still seemed to accept it, standing up straighter.

 

Miki gazed as Akira’s old landlord pulled away. “Sheesh.” Then she looked down, seeing how the suitcase had already darkened with water. “Oh! Let’s get your things inside. I bet you’re tired.” Before Akira could move, she’d grasped onto the handle of the suitcase and heaved it up the stairs. Akira blinked, clutched the strap of his backpack, and followed her.

 

Miki stopped and wiped her feet, and Akira bent to remove his shoes. His hair was already clotting and dripping as he crossed the threshold. He felt the weight of the water soaking into his shirt. His fingers nervously danced on the strap of his backpack, but something made him hesitant to take it off. He’d feel strangely naked without it. Miki, her hair also dripping, slid her feet into her slippers, then lurched forward to set his suitcase at the bottom of the stairs.

 

He stood for a moment, barefoot, remaining by the door and biting his lip. Miki smiled at him, a ray of sunshine. “It’s alright, Akira.” How she repeated his name was soothing enough to get him to take another step. Their house was beautiful. He could nearly feel it breathing as the rain buffeted the walls. There was nothing like this in the city, even as the storms blew in from the sea. The buildings huddled together, cowering from the tearing winds, while this house seemed to bolden and swell standing in front of each each gust. He felt most comfortable staring at the floor, eyes following the rough wood grain, though the top had been sanded smooth.

 

The door in front of him slid open and Mrs. Makimura stepped out, Mr. Makimura soon behind her. Akira wondered how long her hair was, as it reached all the way to her fingertips while weaved into a braid. She wore an indigo yukata, worn loosely for comfort. Something about her communicated a sense of fragility, although she smiled warmly at the newcomer. When she smiled, he could see where Miki got hers, as the same creases framed her eyes, though they were deepened by the years. But there was a certain hollowness to her expression, while Miki’s seemed to burst with energy. Mr. Makimura set his hand on her shoulder and smiled in his warm, vaulted, pastor-like way. “Welcome, Akira.”

 

Akira dipped his head to them. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.” He felt a deep set guilt about being such a burden, even through their reception. A whole other body.

 

Mr. Makimura waved his hand. “You’ve always been dear to us, Akira. We never thought twice, especially after you’ve been through so much.” Mrs. Makimura clasped a pair of slippers in her hands, and Akira noticed she held her arms close to her to contain their shaking. “Here’s a matching pair for you.” A rough quality framed her voice. She stepped towards him, her husband’s hand still on her shoulder.

 

Akira bent his knees gratefully and clasped them, then knelt to put them on. When he looked up, the boy had run down the stairs and stood behind Miki, clutching onto his arm. Last time he’d seen Taro, he was too young to talk. Now he was old enough to have been in school for awhile. Miki looked down at him gently. “Say hello to Akira.” Taro tucked his face into her arm, then looked up and waved at him, eyes just visible over her sleeve.

 

Akira smiled, tilting his head to the side. “Hi Taro. Believe it or not, I’ve met you before.” He could see a tiny hint of a smile from Taro as he nodded into Miki’s arm, then ran back up the stairs. Miki stepped back over to Akira, noticing how his expression fluttered after Taro left. She leaned into his ear. “He’s been really excited. He’s just always shy when he meets people.” Akira nodded, understanding. He didn’t mind. Taro was emulating how he felt, in fact, but was unable to do. Anyways, he had nowhere to hide.

 

But standing between them all, Akira was overwhelmed. The sense of family was so strong and complete. Even long before his parents were declared missing, his home was a solitary place. His parents were always using their skills abroad, so his life each day ended by returning to a dark house, where he would turn on the kitchen light and warm his dinner. It was always a soft letter with drawings from his mother, a woodcut from his father, and silence except for the cars on the highway. Here, he was struck with their closely knit atmosphere. There were the mysteries they carried together, having moved house years ago, then through life here with paper walls and a mile into town. Even as they opened up to him, he knew he couldn’t quite engage in what they shared, but the intimacy they offered touched him nonetheless. Even so many years later, the memory connecting them returned. He’d lost everything, but one thing came back to life. This time he couldn’t attempt to hide the tears, but he smiled wide to try to stop them, though all he could really do was stare down at his new slippers.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Makimura glanced at each other and then at their daughter. Miki clicked her tongue, eyes flickering to her parents. Akira was embarrassed to ruin the moment, reddening and covering his face with his hands. They’d only been kind. She stepped toward Akira, then lovingly rubbed his shoulder with her hand, firm and steady. “Akira…” Then, after a minute, he felt the hands of both her parents following suit: Mrs. Makimura’s soft and almost ghostly and Mr. Makimura’s more of an abrupt tap. He sniffed and straightened, and they stepped back. Miki smiled back at him and clasped her hands together. “Well. I was nearly finished with dinner. I bet you’re hungry.”

 

x-x-x-x-x

 

Akira sat on his knees at the place Miki had set for him. He stared down at his hands, which grasped his legs as he sat. The morning glories Miki had set out smelled lush and sweet in the humid air. Taro sat across the table, simultaneously interested in him and avoiding eye contact. Akira saved him the strain, instead watching Miki serve everyone.

 

Mr. Makimura was the last to be seated, and as he passed Akira, he set his hand on his head. “You got so tall.” He shut his eyes as he smiled, then sat down. Akira gazed after him. He was strangely like his father. He wasn’t sure if what he felt was a relief or a repulsion.

 

Miki had made hayashi rice. “It used to be your favorite, right?” Akira was amazed that she could remember that for so long. In reality, he hadn’t had it for a while, but her thoughtfulness filled him with warmth. The rice was still warm, condensation collecting on its cover. The pot Miki held was still steaming, with its lazy vapor wandering towards the ceiling.

 

“I also got a melon, too.” She smiled widely again. “We can cut it for dessert.”

 

Mrs. Makimura laughed lightly. “You should have seen her hauling it home. I could see her clear down the road. She’d bought the biggest one she could find.”

 

Akira laughed too, watching Miki grin. Then he looked down at the food. It was so warm and inviting. He ate very slowly, glad to have an excuse not to speak. He preferred to listen to them exchange anecdotes. They’d also seemed to decide that questioning him wasn’t very appropriate. He could be a normal staple of their table, and he was relieved. So he ate, listening.

 

He stared at the flowers, which stared back at him. They were the pale blue of the sky reflected in the ocean, a color ingrained in him from his summers growing up by the seaside. The wind always made his mother’s skirt wave wildly, the water always slid over his feet, so cold. He stopped eating and looked down at his bowl. It was odd to think the ocean was still there, but a stranger now.

 

Miki nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Akira. If you’re done, let me show you your room.” She’d lowered her voice. Her saying his name was a soft pat on the back. Akira blinked again, then sniffed and looked up.

 

He hadn’t expected to be given his own room. He didn’t know what he expected, but when Miki opened the door, his voice caught in his throat. It was so nice. She’d left the window open to air it out. It probably hadn’t been used in some time. Gauzy curtains obscured the light tumbling in from the outside. Miki frowned at the dust motes floating in the sunbeam. She’d laid out the futon and folded blankets to set on the edge of it. Akira saw the labor she’d given so gently in each neat fold. The dusting, the stacking of the boxes in the closet. She really had been anticipating his arrival. He almost couldn’t breathe, and his knees shook. With all the change, this somehow was a sip of familiarity, like tea warming him from the inside. A real room for somebody.

 

Miki still knitted her eyebrows. “I swore I got all the dust.” Akira almost had to gasp to gain his breath back. “N-no….I don’t mind.” Strangely, his eyes were dry. He hid his weak knees by kneeling on the edge of the futon. They’d wrapped a yellow umbrella with a ribbon, writing his name lovingly with thick black ink. He held it in his hands, the cold metal brushing against his skin on one hand, the smooth polyester on the other. It was almost a sacred object, as when the archaeologist finally unearths the artifact, holding it, so present, in his hands.

 

Miki shut her eyes, smiling. “You really needed it earlier.” She laughed. “It’s come late. But. It’s definitely going to rain again.”

 

Akira looked up at her, still holding it in both hands. “No….it’s perfect. Thank you very much.”

 

Miki laughed gently at his seriousness. “Of course. It’s just an umbrella.” She stepped into the room, pulling his suitcase along with her. She set it alongside the futon. “There.” Then she gazed at it for a moment. “Is that really all you brought? Didn’t you have a room to yourself before too?” Then her eyebrows shot up in realization. But Akira knew she hadn’t meant to be indelicate. He tried his best to smile, but it was more of the grimace one gives after being punched. “Ah….it just happened so fast, I guess. Couldn’t stay.”

 

Miki lowered her eyes apologetically. After a long pause, she straightened. “Well, if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll make sure you get it!” Her eyes were earnest, and her smile began to grow back.

 

Akira looked up at her. “Thank you, Miki.” His smile was a bit more believable this time. He set the umbrella down and stood up. “You already did so much.”

 

Miki blinked. “Well, I’m happy to. And please, though. Do ask if there is anything.” She was serious. Akira knew she at least knew him well enough to know to remind him.

 

“I will.” He looked down at his slippers.

 

“Good. You better.” She grinned, narrowing her eyes playfully. “I think. We should cut the melon now.”

 

“That sounds good to me.”


	2. Watermelon

Back downstairs, it was so quiet. Miki hummed as she padded her way to the kitchen. Akira paused on the last stair and looked around. “Where did everybody go?”

“Ah, they went to mass. They figured you’d be too tired to go today.”

Akira pressed his toes into the soles of his slippers. “Oh, okay.” He didn’t want to admit that although his parents were religious, too, he hadn’t been to mass for a long while. He stepped off the last stair and followed Miki into the kitchen, where she’d gathered a knife and a dish for the watermelon.

Miki wielding such a large knife made Akira’s heart trip and knock against the front of his ribcage. And she was pleased as punch. She was sitting on the edge of the counter, pressing the tip against the rind, measuring about halfway across. Her slippers lay strewn across the kitchen floor. Akira watched her, wide-eyed.

She jabbed suddenly, wild enough to make Akira wince. He couldn’t help it. There was a tearing sound as the knife sliced into the rind. Miki grinned intensely, glaring downward as she conquered it. “Ah….ha!” The red juices could not be contained, splattering upwards at her and dripping down the side of the counter.

The melon fell to either side of the knife, and she raised it, still slick. A translucent red. She laughed. Akira realized the horror he felt could be read on his face, which had twisted into a wince. Miki still laughed. “Akira, you’re afraid of knives?”

Miki took a finger of her free hand and wiped a droplet off her face, smiled at him, and wiped in on the hem of her shirt. It left a small pink stain. She then cut the two halves into quarters. A pool of juice had formed around her cutting board. Miki clicked her tongue. “What a mess.”

She softened, brought her knees together, and slid off the counter. She smiled at Akira, who’d gone pale, then turned and offered him one of the quarters. “It’s probably soft enough you can use a chopstick to slice it. So it’s ok.” She giggled lightly. 

Akira blinked, his face turning from gray to red. He took the melon slice, feeling the juice trickle onto his hands, drip down his wrist to the floor. He looked at the counter. It seemed so violent. Blood pooling everywhere. His mind wandered to territory without closure. Airplane crash sites with limbs strewn, gently shut eyes. Hemorrhaging in an isolation ward. Knives in alleys, knives under fluorescent lights. Just a dark liquid, seeping slowly, but finding the drain. The sewer. Sticky. And all over his hands. Then he felt a tapping on his shoulder. “Hey.”

Akira jumped. Miki laughed but gazed at him earnestly, somewhat concerned. “I can do it if you need me to.”

He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. “No, it’s ok.” He shook his head and straightened, then set the melon on the counter, lifting the clean knife. His hand shook. He glanced over at Miki, who had stuck her finger in her mouth. He returned to the melon, then sliced it into two, three, four. She was right. It was incredibly soft. Flesh. But then he had to apply a pressure each time for the rind. Crack.

Miki had already sliced hers, and was sliding melon seeds from the counter into her mouth. “I’ll probably have several melon plants growing in my stomach, won’t I?” There was a pink stain above her lip.

Akira smiled back, but his eyes stayed open wide. “Probably.”

Miki laughed again, handed him a slice, then grasped one for herself. Akira watched her shut her eyes, familiar crinkling, then take a bite. He bit into his too. A crisp but soft sound, then he felt the trails of juice down his chin. It dripped onto the floor. Maybe he was finally able to taste sugar again. It had eluded him for awhile. He’d been an untethered balloon, observing from above. He looked up at Miki and smiled back, and it was the familiar wide smile she remembered from childhood. She giggled.

“Tomorrow we have to run errands to get you ready to go to school and stuff. My friend Michael said he could come help. Would you like to meet him tomorrow? I wasn’t sure how much excitement was too much excitement.”

Akira nodded, unable to answer because his mouth was buried in the rind. He licked his lips. If he was being honest, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. That he would be attending school. Meeting other people. “That should be okay.”

Miki beamed. “Good! He really wanted to meet you. And don’t worry. I think you’ll like him.”

x-x-x-x-x

Akira wasn’t accustomed to such darkness. The futon was comfortable, but he found himself staring at the ceiling, feeling the world rotate, the house perched precariously on its edge. The city was full of motion, even on quiet streets. But it wasn’t that the countryside lacked motion. The wind lifted its body, brushing the trees as it rose, leaving the limbs shaking. The house itself seemed to be breathing, the wood creaking back and forth under the sky. 

This place just seemed to house a peculiar silence. Then he realized how strange that thought was. The cicadas were thunderous. How could a wall of noise make him feel so deaf? It must have been the lack of light. He didn’t know if he sat up or hung upside down, the air tumbling off the base of the earth. The city moved, but the movement was more geometric than organic: the cars passed either parallel or particular. The sounds either moved closer or farther away, rather than swallowing him in an all-encompassing, almost spiritual presence. The sky lingered, it showed its face, but here it wrapped its whole fist around the earth. It was so much larger here. It was so hungry.

And tonight the eye of the moon gazed downward. He wondered how it would look on a moonless night. Maybe it would be like he was abandoned by his rocket, suspended in space. He felt if he moved from his square set here on the floor, maybe he would be propelled into space. A holy outline. But then again, was here truly better than among the comets? Better to stick with a familiar beast, although it was the flimsiest sense of familiarity he’d ever known.

Akira bit his lip. _Please sleep._ But maybe speaking to himself was the wrong direction. He turned his thoughts upward. _Please let me sleep._

But whatever god he spoke to was in no such hurry, camouflaged in the noise, and it seemed like an eternity before Akira’s relief, which came invisible, and he only realized it upon waking up when he was bathed in dim light and heard footsteps downstairs.


End file.
